


Everything I do, I do it for you

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Molly Hooper, Forbidden Love, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft is Sweet, Protective Mycroft, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-03-08 13:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18895984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Sherlock turns up at a hostage scene without any warning and tries to throw himself in the path of the bullet which is finding its way to Mycroft's heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I know...I have two WIPs in progress but sometimes the muse behaves like she has attention deficit disorder and I am but a puppet in her hands...so...here is a new fic :)

He was not supposed to be there.

But of course he would never listen to Mycroft.

_Obey? Behave?? Do as he is told?_

Huh. As if _that_ was ever going to happen.

As a result, he was right at the exploding edge of the hostage situation as it unravelled.

He was riding an adrenaline high as he crouched there, waiting to move as soon as Anthea gave any indication of backing down, when there was a movement at the very periphery of his vision.

Sherlock’s heart stopped as he realized that Mycroft was now directly in the line of fire.

In that instant the entire world went silent and everything else blurred. All he could see was Mycroft and the path of the bullet.

He made rapid fire calculations and leaped off the ledge he had been crouched upon, but a split second too late.

The bullet had left the gun.

It was aimed straight at Mycroft’s heart.

“Nooo!!! Mycroft!!!NOOOO!!!” he screamed as he threw himself in the path of the bullet, onto Mycroft and both of them fell down in a heap.

Anthea took advantage of the situation to whip out her gun and in the next two seconds there were two dead kidnappers crumpled on the floor, like puppets with their strings cut off.

With her eyes still blazing with fury, she turned to look at Mycroft and said “You are safe now sir. Let’s go.”

Mycroft was sitting there holding Sherlock cradled on his lap and was calling his name. “Sherlock? Sherlock?! Talk to me Sherlock!”

When there was no response, he frantically checked his pulse.

_Oh thank goodness!!_

Feeble but very much there, tripping under his finger, allowing him also to breathe and survive.

 _Sherlock was really going to be the death of him one day_ he thought as he tried to calm his breathing down.

He had been more terrified at the sight of his little brother leaping off like that, straight into the line of fire, than he had been when he himself was staring down the barrel of the gun.

Sherlock was unconscious but alive! There was rubble all around them and the shootouts seemed to have caused more instability in the rickety shelter.

_They needed to leave--- and quickly!_

Mycroft picked Sherlock up in his arms, bridal style and they walked out through the rubble and dust as the sirens blazed and paramedics and fire-fighters came rushing in.

The paramedics took charge of both of them and placed them in gurneys with neck braces. Before that Mycroft took off his bulletproof vest and handed it to Anthea. The bullet was firmly lodged in it, exactly over his heart.

He hesitated as they picked up Sherlock and took him to the ambulance, conflict over having to leave him alone and aware that he also needed some medical attention.

Anthea reassured him that she would stay with Sherlock and he should go get himself taken care of.

.

.

Mycroft received first aid and debriefed his staff person on the hostage situation and received the report from his agents. Heads were surely going to roll for this. Incompetence and complacency had been the root of this disaster.

Mycroft was furious and the officer who left his hospital was pale and trembling on his way out. Anthea looked at him, steely eyed and grim.

The doctor came by and told Mycroft that he was free to go.

“What about Sherlock?” He asked.

The doctor said, “He got lucky. He has only minor injuries considering his jump. Physically he is fine.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes instantly and asked her. “What do you mean?”

“He has suffered a head injury.”

Mycroft’s breath almost stopped. “Has here been any neurological damage?”

The doctor glanced at Anthea and back at Mycroft. She knew who he was and that there was no point in being anything less than direct at this point. So she spoke in a neutral voice. “It seems as though he has regressed.”

Mycroft was silent for a beat, absorbing this unexpected piece of information. Then he asked. “How old is he behaving now?”

“Given his vocabulary I would say 8 but given his emotional responses I would say 4. So maybe 4 with an advanced intellect. And he kept asking for Mycie.” She paused. “He kept saying ‘don’t leave me Mycie’. He seems to have been severely traumatized at the thought of being separated from this person. We have had to sedate him for now.”

Mycroft blinked at this even more startling piece of information. He took a deep breath and spoke very calmly and only Anthea could hear the trace of anxiety in his voice. “Please take me to him Dr Raj.”

.

.

Anthea stepped out with the doctor and was engaged in a discussion when Greg came by, looking very worried.

“Just heard about the incident.” He said to Anthea. “Are both of them ok?”

“Not quite.” Anthea said quietly. “But do go in.”

Mycroft didn’t look up when Greg came in. He was sitting very still, holding Sherlock’s hand and if Greg didn’t know him, he would have said he was praying.

Greg stepped across to the other side of Sherlock’s bed. He had been here before. Many times now. He and Mycroft. Keeping vigil on either side of Sherlock’s hospital bed. He could not believe they were doing this again.

He looked at Mycroft and saw the same pained expression that he had gotten so used to. But this time his guard seemed to be down because he saw something else also. It took him a while to figure it out because he had never seen it there before.

Later as he was making his way back to the Yard he realized what it was. That was more than just fear and worry. That was vulnerability. That was regret. That was fear.

_._

_._

John had been away for a medical conference. When he heard the news he had changed his travel plans to come back early.  

 _Idiot! Can’t leave him alone for one weekend without him half- killing himself_ John thought as he sat in the train trying to will it to go faster, even more worried at the odd news that he was fine physically.

_For a man who called his body the Transport and who had a fucking Palace in his Mind, what the hell would be do if there had been damage to that precious brain?!_

John sat with his head in his hands for the entire four hour journey and almost ran to the hospital as soon as he could.

.

.

Molly had dropped in the evening Sherlock had been admitted and again that next day. It was the evening of the second day now and John, Greg and Molly were all in the room when Sherlock opened his eyes.

He ignored everyone else and looked only at Mycroft.

“Mycie!” he called out, his voice rough from disuse.

Everyone was stunned and turned to look at Mycroft. They were all thinking so loudly that Mycroft almost rolled his eyes at them. Of course he knew what the doctor had said _but to hear it from Sherlock himself?_ He had not called him by that name since they were kids.

Sherlock sounded agitated. “Mycie don’t leave me! Don’t go!”

Mycroft swiftly moved even closer and held his hand and patted him and petted his hair and murmured. “I am here William. I am right here. I am not going anywhere ok? Just relax.”

“Not William anymore.” Sherlock said with a scowl.

“Ok. Lockie.” Mycroft said with a small smile. “I am right here.”

Sherlock smiled back and closed his eyes.

John, Greg and Molly exchanged glances.

 _William?!!_ They had never ever heard Sherlock being called by that name.

 _And Mycie and Lockie?_ That sounded like a much closer relationship than they could imagine given the current level of hostility they observed on a regular basis.

Just listening to Mycroft’s voice seemed to have calmed Sherlock down and the others all trooped out to give them some time alone as the doctor also came by just then.

.

.

Mycroft had a serious discussion with the doctor who explained to him that severe trauma or stress can cause adults to regress temporarily, especially if the situation that caused it made them feel out of control. The adults can manifest this by baby talk, crying, whining, bed-wetting, tantrums, needing a comfort object.

In essence, individuals revert to a point in their development when they felt safer and when stress was non-existent, or when an all-powerful parent or another adult would have rescued them.

Mycroft listened to all this politely and then asked how long it would take to recover from and what was the treatment to be offered.

She looked thoughtful and said “Difficult to say how long it will take. The process tends to be a bit unpredictable. And the treatment is TLC.”

Mycroft looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“Tender Loving Care Mr. Holmes. Most of the interventions needed are behavioural. Pharmacological intervention is helpful if there is any pre-existing underlying psychological condition, which does not appear to be the case here. As I said, he seems to have suffered some serious stress, which has caused him to feel insecure to such a deep extent that his mind has gone back to a time when he felt safe.”

She consulted her notes. “He answered to his age as 4 earlier today and gave the name of the Prime Minister as Margaret Thatcher…..and his address as Hartfield. I am guessing that is his childhood home?”

Mycroft nodded, still a bit stunned by all this information.

The doctor continued. “He needs to be helped to continue to feel safe and the regression is likely to reverse itself. You are listed as his next- of- kin so of course we will release him into your care but we would strongly recommend a visit by our therapists every two days.”

After half a minute of internal debate Mycroft nodded. ‘Thank you very much Dr. Raj. I will take him home and will be in touch regarding the therapist.”

.

.

Sherlock had been curled up on his bed and sucking on his thumb this whole time.

Once Dr. Raj left, Mycroft patted him on the shoulder gently and said “Lockie? We are going home in some time, ok?”

Sherlock nodded his head and closed his eyes again.

Mycroft stepped outside the room and closed the door deliberately and quietly. He looked at these three friends his baby brother seemed to have acquired in recent years. He wondered fleetingly who would come to his own bedside if he was ever in this situation. Anthea of course. But personal visitors? No one. He knew that even Sherlock may not have dropped by. Not after the way things had been between them.

He looked at Greg and Molly and nodded and then directed his words to his brother’s flatmate.

“Dr Watson, as you are aware my brother has suffered a head trauma and regressed. He is currently exhibiting signs of being 4 years old. The doctors are discharging him today and I think it would be best if I bring him to Baker Street. I simply cannot take him back to Hartfield nor to my own home. We don’t know how long this will last. He may have regressed emotionally but I think at some level he would have a sense of comfort at familiar surroundings. I hope that it would be acceptable.”

“Yes of course. “ John said. “That is quite sensible. I can take leave for a week at least. Even more if needed.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Yeah, so can I. It’s been ages since I took any leave.”

“I can also manage.” Molly said softly.

They all looked at Mycroft.

“Let us know what needs to be done. “ John added.

It gave Mycroft an odd feeling. Since Sherlock always but _always_ resisted everything he tried to do for him, this easy acceptance was a bit disorienting. He was now completely in charge. The next-of-kin. The guardian. The caretaker. The way he had always been, but now without any pushback.

“That is very kind of you.” Mycroft said politely with a nod of his head to all of them. “It is much appreciated.”

.

.

On the way to Baker Street Sherlock fell asleep in the car with his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and holding Mycroft’s hand on his lap.

Mycroft’s mind was racing at the speed of light.

Sherlock had turned up at the hostage scene without any warning and had tried to throw himself in the path of the bullet. He closed his eyes, remembering the utter shock and then instant terror that had overwhelmed him at the sight of Sherlock now in the path of the bullet!

 _Sherlock!_ The one person on this planet for whom he would willingly die was going to die in front of him!! All for nothing, because he was already wearing a bullet proof vest in anticipation.

 _And now this?!_ His genius brother, the only one whose mind came anywhere close to his own, the only one in whose company a small ray of light dispelled the deep abyss of darkness of his world, doomed as he was to inhabit it with goldfish who had neither the language nor the capacity to understand even a fraction of what he did. That mind was trapped in its own palace now. All doors had been shut except the room for the 4 year old.

 _What was he going to tell Mummy_ he thought with a dull groan.

The car came to a smooth halt in front of 221B Baker Street. Mycroft stepped out and helped Sherlock.

“We are home.” He said. “Here, take my hand.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg get a peek at the private life of the Holmes brothers, before they became Sherlock ‘The Consulting Detective’ and sometime drug user and Mycroft Holmes, ‘The British Government’ and Overlord of CCTVs.

“What place is this?” Sherlock asked, holding Mycroft’s hand tight as they climbed up the stairs.

“This is Baker Street. I have come to London to study and you are staying with me. We have a very kind housekeeper and I will be there to take care of you.”

Sherlock beamed at him happily. “Will you also play with me?”

“Yes of course Lockie.” Mycroft answered with a smile. “When I finish studying.”

John and Greg were waiting for them inside the flat but Sherlock ignored them completely. They might as well have been invisible.

As soon as Mycroft sat down in a chair, he went and sat on Mycroft’s lap. All six feet of him. Mycroft didn’t even blink. In fact he looked like he had expected exactly this. He held him with an arm loosely around his waist as Sherlock leaned into his chest and tucked his head under his chin.

It was like watching a contortionist in action as Sherlock folded in on himself, the innocent and lost expression on his face making him even look like a small child.

“Mycie kiss me better.” Sherlock said with a pout, holding out his hands which had some bandages on it for the abrasions.

John and Greg stared at the scene. Like rabbits in headlights. Then they glanced at each other, not sure if they should stay or go. They were torn between extreme level of embarrassment and even greater levels of curiosity.

_What was going to happen now?!!_ Oh they totally had to stay for this!

Sherlock sat there sucking his thumb. Mycroft gently pulled it out of his mouth and held his hand and kissed it. Sherlock shook his head and pointed to his cheek with his finger.

Mycroft smiled and kissed him gently, almost tenderly.

John thought he could actually feel his heart melting and dripping out of his ribcage.

_What was happening?!! This was the almost robotic Consulting Genius who got agitated and cranky every single time Mycroft came over or even spoke to him? Mr. Alone- protects- me?! He didn’t bloody think so! And this was the Ice Man kissing his brother’s cheek to ‘make it better’ as he sat on his lap for goodness’ sake!! What was this world coming to?!_

Mycroft gave Sherlock a hug and ruffled his hair and said “Now be a good boy and sit on the sofa by yourself and read. Mycie has to study.”

“Here?”

“No. In offi….in college.”

“No!” Sherlock said very loudly and his lower lip trembled. “No. NO! No say bye. No…Mycie not go.” and he was on the verge of tears and was clutching Mycroft’s coat in both hands.

“Ok. Alright. Alright. Don’t cry.” Mycroft said quickly, patting him on the back. “Mycie can study here if Lockie will be a good boy and stay quiet for him?”

Sherlock nodded and smiled. “Puzzles?” he asked.

“Of course!” Mycroft smiled back. “But pin drop silence till they are done.”

Sherlock nodded vigorously. Then he pointed to Greg and John without looking at them. “Mycie friends?”

“Yes.” Mycroft said. “Also Lockie’s friends.”

Sherlock shook his head in denial. “I don’t have friends. Only one.” And he held Mycroft’s hand and smiled at him.

John and Greg were watching all this with stunned expressions. They were mesmerized by these interactions and this peek at the private life of the Holmes brothers, before they became Sherlock ‘The Consulting Detective’ and sometime drug user and Mycroft Holmes, ‘The British Government’ and Overlord of CCTVs.

Mycroft pulled out a small notebook from inside his coat and spent five minutes in writing down some puzzles while Sherlock tried to climb on him from the back of the chair. Finally Mycroft settled him down on the sofa with the notebook and a pencil and then stood up.

John and Greg let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding! They exchanged glances and watched as Mycroft loosened his tie, opened the top button of his shirt, took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and called Anthea.

_He wore sleeve garters?!_ John would have snickered if he had seen anyone else wearing that but Mycroft carried it off so elegantly and masterfully that he only stared at his arms.

“Virtual office today.” He heard Mycroft say. “Cancel all in-person appointments that cannot be shifted.”

Before John could open his mouth to ask what was to be done, there was a knock on the door.

John and Greg almost jumped out of their skin at that sound. But Mycroft clearly seemed to be expecting someone so he went and opened the door.

A young man came in with a metal case locked to his wrist by a chain.

Mycroft pulled out a chain from inside his own waistcoat and used the key as well as his left thumb and the young man’s left thumb to open the case to extract his laptop.

John and Greg felt like they had been dropped into a James Bond movie.

_Did this seriously happen in real life?!_

Mycroft caught their expressions. “The future of the free world depends on this laptop.” he said mildly by way of explanation.

As an afterthought he added. “And left thumb because if anyone gets the idea to cut it off and take it for unlocking then at least I will still have a functional dominant hand.”

John and Greg actually paled as they absorbed this information.

Standing before them was truly the British Government and The Most Dangerous Man in Britain.

And he had taken a work- from- home day to look after his baby brother.

They turned to look at Sherlock who was now sitting upside down on the sofa with his legs draped on the back and his head almost falling off the seat. He had his tongue sticking out as he solved the puzzles.

John had glanced at the book and could not even understand what they were let alone how to solve them and Sherlock was solving them at a rather fast pace. John sent up a prayer of thanks that Sherlock’s cognitive functions were intact.

Meanwhile Mycroft set up his laptop, dismissed the young man and was about to go to the kitchen to make tea when John suddenly woke up from his trance and said “Hey Mycroft let me make us some tea.”

Mycroft thanked him with a nod and pulled out a teabag from his jacket pocket. “Please Dr Watson, could you use this for me? If it isn’t too much trouble?”

Greg smiled. He remembered this from all those nights at Sherlock’s bedside during those difficult years. Mycroft would wrinkle up his nose at the vile coffee and tea in all the waiting rooms and had eventually taken to getting hot water flasks and his tea bags along.

Greg had initially thought that this was all just part of his posh trappings and internally rolled his eyes at the time but now he understood.

For someone like Mycroft to deal with the cyclone that was his younger brother, he needed some constant reliable things to centre him. Even if it was as fragile as a teabag hanging by a thread.

Greg thought to himself what an apt symbol it was for Mycroft himself! Put him in hot water and what you got was a very British cup of tea.

Keep Calm and Carry on.

He emerged from this reverie to see Mycroft looking at him. He had a very small curve to the edge of his lips, as though reading Greg’s thoughts.

“I need to go back to the Yard now.” Greg said. “Do call me if I can do anything further. I will drop in whenever I can.”

“That is much appreciated Inspector.” Mycroft said with a nod as he went back to looking at his laptop.

As Greg was leaving he saw John bring the tea in a cup and saucer and laughed to himself. _Oh Captain John Watson, responding to real power like a true soldier. No chipped mugs for the Commander._

Then he heard Sherlock speak just as he was about to close the door to the flat and his already soft heart dissolved quite completely.

“Mycie will your friend be coming back? I like him.”

_Oh be still my poor heart_ Greg thought as he suddenly felt a lump in his throat.

He vowed that once Sherlock got better and was back to insulting him and his team, he would always remember that this adorable kid was in there somewhere.

_Please Lord, Universe, Spirits, whoever is out there. Please let him get better! Let him call me Graham again and say I am an idiot. Please! Greg_ prayed fervently.

“Yes of course.” Mycroft was assuring Sherlock. “He likes you too. Very much in fact. But he is an adult with a job so he has to go do it.”

“What is his job?”

“He is a detective. He catches people who have done bad things.”

 “Does he catch pirates?”

“No, he doesn’t go out to sea. But if he did, I think he might. He is one of the good people.”

“But what if I was a good pirate? Like Robin Hood on the high seas?”

“Then I think he might just look the other way.” Mycroft said seriously.

Sherlock laughed gleefully. “That is what you call ambivalent isn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Mycroft said. “Not ambivalent as much as discretionary. A bit of a grey area. We will ask him when he comes back.”

“He seems nice.” Sherlock said again thoughtfully. “I might even like to be a detective like him.”

 

Greg stood outside the door and had to wipe his eyes and then scurry down the stairs before he could reveal that he had been eavesdropping. But he was smiling when he did finally step out on the pavement.

Mycroft had noticed Greg standing and listening. Of course he had. And he was glad he had. The inspector had been so good to Sherlock for so many years, with nary a word of gratitude from him, though Mycroft himself had of course always expressed his gratitude. _He needed to hear this, Mycroft thought._

Meanwhile John had been sitting in his chair quietly drinking his own tea from a mug, watching all this in utter astonishment.

“All done with the puzzles.” Sherlock said, chewing his pencil, still hanging almost upside down on the sofa at an impossible angle.

“Clever boy!” Mycroft said, slightly distracted by an email he was sending.

“Aren’t you proud of me?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft turned at that and looked at him. “Always!”

Sherlock hummed. Then he asked. “Even when I don’t listen to you?”

“Always Sherlock. Even then.” Mycroft said. “Believe me?”

“Always.” Sherlock said. “Now give me cookies.”

“I don’t have any here but maybe my friend John can get some?”

Sherlock seemed to notice John for the first time as he spoke to Mycroft in a loud whisper. “Tell him I want ginger snaps.”

“Ok. But what do we say Lock?”

“I want ginger snaps NOW!” He said and then giggled as Mycroft looked at him in mock disapproval.

“Lock…”

“Please.” He said and stuck out his tongue at Mycroft.

John found himself hoping desperately that Mycroft’s usual surveillance was on and that they were going to have all this footage. _This was priceless!_

“Go away!” Sherlock said to John suddenly, twisting up and jumping on the sofa. “You are thinking too loudly!”

Mycroft looked at him with one eyebrow raised and cleared his throat and Sherlock was quelled and fell back grumbling and scowling.

“Now, Lock, I am going to give you a book to read and you must stay quiet for an entire hour.”

“How can I check if it is one hour without my watch which is in your pocket?” Sherlock said scowling.

“You know is it my watch Lock, but I will lend it to you.” Mycroft said patiently.

“You have promised it to me when I grow up.”

“Yes.” Mycroft said and there was something about the way he said it that made John go very still. Something significant. But Mycroft continued smoothly. “If you still want it when you grow up. It is yours. All you have to do is ask for it.”

Mycroft walked over to the bookshelf and pulled out a book without any hesitation. “Now, no disturbing me for an hour. Here. Take this book of Lake District poets. Learn up all 20 poems and we will discuss them later. Ok?”

John’s eyebrows almost shot off his forehead.

_Mycroft knew exactly which books they had? And a four year old had to learn 20 poems in an hour?_

Sherlock seemed unruffled. He took the book and whispered loudly to Mycroft.

“Your friend has not gone to get the cookies!!Tell him to go.”

John got up immediately and nodded to Mycroft. He wore his jacket and stepped outside. He paused outside the door and heard a sound that plastered a goofy smile on his face for ages. He heard a loud smacking kiss and a giggle.

“I wanted to kiss you but not in front of anyone.”

“Thank you Lockie.” He heard Mycroft say softly.

“My kiss?” Sherlock asked.

John didn’t hear anything but the happy humming sound told him that Sherlock had got what he wanted.

“Now, be a good boy and read for one hour ok?” Mycroft was saying and there was a smile in his voice.

Sherlock must have gone off to read because John heard the soft clicks of Mycroft’s keyboard.

He went down the stairs shaking his head. _Had he fallen into a particularly bizarre dream?_ These two brothers who engaged in verbal and intellectual duels and jousting on every single occasion that he had seen them together, were trading kisses?! _Kisses??!_

Suddenly he felt himself wishing desperately that if Sherlock recovered, no, when he recovered, he would not forget these feelings and this love.

.

.

When he went down the stairs he saw Mrs. Hudson waiting at her door, wringing her hands in agitation.

“Oh John? How is he?”

“Physically he is well.”

Her hand flew up to her mouth in horror. “Oh John!! What do you mean?”

“He seems to have regressed due to the head injury.” John cleared his throat. There was no easy way to say this _._ “Sherlock is currently 4 years old mentally.”

“Oh the poor dear!” Mrs. Hudson said. “I am sure he is going to get well real soon. But in the meanwhile I better make his favourite cookies and pudding.” And she bustled off.

John shook his head as he stepped out.

_Everyone loved Sherlock so much! All they needed was for him to drop his prickly armour with which he kept them all at arm’s length, or even further._

He knew all about the goldfish and the 'alone protects me', but he had never really understood what had made him like that. _Were they likely to find out now?_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark Gatiss has said that one of the inspirations for the BBC show was an old movie called ‘The Private life of Sherlock Holmes.’
> 
> The entire film is here : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Q2kaw_he64
> 
> Mark's interview is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otYRcTrK1d0
> 
>  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all apologies for such a long gap!! I hate it when WIPs are left hanging endlessly and had hoped never to be that author but * facepalms* real life has a way of knocking at one's door once in a while.....Hopefully the next few chapters won't take so ridiculously long. I have the outline ready but I want the filling out to also be lovely for all your wonderful readers!!

Since the Big Bang, time has moved forward relentlessly, like an arrow, indifferent to the joys and sorrows and desires of the insignificant creatures milling around the pale blue dot in the middle of nowhere.

Everyone dies. Caring is not an advantage.

As Mycroft set up the laptop, one level of his Mind Palace was ruminating on such existential concerns while another was already categorizing and storing away new memories. Fresh, untainted and beautiful.

The feel of Sherlock’s soft curls through his fingers, the weight of him on his lap, the possessive hold of his arms, the feel of his head snuggled into the crook of his shoulder, that innocent love in his eyes. Those kisses, soft and sweet.

Memories to be visited and cherished. Later. When all this was over. As it surely would be, because all things end and all hearts are broken.

So Mycroft created a whole new wing to store these. Far away from a long forbidden door which lay at the end of a dark corridor lined with desperation and yearning. Filled with barbed wire and shards of broken glass. That door which opened into a much neglected paradise of the most precious memories. The ones he would keep safe till the end of time.

The memories of the days gone by when he had Sherlock to himself and Sherlock had him and that was all they had ever needed. Those idyllic days, those long evenings, that charmed life. A born genius and a natural teacher, he had nurtured his baby brother into a genius too. He had talked to him and read to him and taught him. He had protected him and guided him and looked out for him. He had adored him. He had loved him. Oh how _much_ he had loved him! Fiercely and proudly and tenderly.

It was as though Sherlock had been born for him. To take his rightful place by his side. The yin to his yang. The day to his night. The earth to his sky.

And Sherlock had behaved as though he felt the same. He had been devoted to Mycroft, following him everywhere, listening to him, learning from him, worshipping him. Looking at him like he was the sun, moon and stars.

They had been inseparable. Entangled in each other’s lives and hearts and minds till it was difficult to say where one ended and the other began. Mycroft had rejoiced in having someone with a mind as close to his own in brilliance and Sherlock had blossomed to his fullest potential, much like a flower under the morning sun. Those were happy golden years and the real world had not come knocking at their pleasure palace yet.

After a brief attempt to get the three year old Sherlock to understand that Mycroft needed to go to school for the greater part of the day, and the subsequent cosmic meltdown the small boy had, there had been a serious discussion in the library.

Mummy was going to ask Mycroft if he was willing to consider being home schooled for Sherlock’s sake. Before she could say anything, Mycroft, all of 10 had told her that he would rather study on his own at home that do anything that would make Sherlock unhappy.

“I cannot bear to see him sad Mummy. I will do anything for him.”

Mummy had nodded, slightly worried at this level of devotion and dependency, aware that at some point the separation would have to happen. But maybe, that was a topic for another day.

.

.

An idyllic period followed. Sherlock sitting in the library with Mycroft at all hours, discussions ranging from Aristotle’s theories of logic and deductive reasoning to Yeats’ poetry and from understanding fractals to supernovas. They learnt memory tricks and codes and deductions together. They studied the globe and anatomy textbooks, poisons and medicines.

Many times he was sitting upside down on the sofa with his head dangling down and legs up as Mycie held on to him, laughing at his mad antics. Many times he was sitting cross legged in front of his big brother in rapt attention as he learnt something new.

While Mycroft practised the piano, Sherlock had preferred the violin and they spent many happy hours playing and composing together.

They dressed up and acted in plays, played pirates, Sherlock climbed trees while Mycroft always stood warily underneath, always ready to catch him if he fell.

Uncle Rudy had sensed great potential in both the boys and had taken them under his wing. He had taught Mycroft how to build a Mind Palace and Mycroft remembered Sherlock’s 5th birthday when he had sat him down and helped him construct one too.

A Mind Palace where he could separate the inputs, create archives for future reference, find calm places, shelters, answers. He helped him set out rooms and floors. He could see that Sherlock had loved the idea and had sat there sincerely, fingers steepled under his chin, serious expression on his face, eyes focussed in mid-air, scanning the facts, thoughts, ideas, results, people, patterns, codes, maps…..everything really.

Sherlock had wanted a room for Mummy of course and a smaller one for Father and Cook and everyone else at home. He had asked for a room for Uncle Rudy who was just about the only relative he could tolerate.

After a couple of days working on this finally Mycroft had asked him—“Lockie, don’t you want a room for me?”

Sherlock had given him a baffled look. “But you are the Mind Palace Mycie! It’s all you! You are everywhere.”

And Mycroft had felt so overwhelmed with emotion, he had really thought he was going to cry.

.

.

It had all been too good to last of course.

And when the four horses of the Apocalypse had come and gone and the dust had settled on the end of days in Paradise, Mycroft knew he had no one else to blame.

He was the one who had let them in.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets an unexpected and delightful peek into the life and times of his genius flatmate as an adorable ( and adored) child.

By the time John came back with the ginger snaps and other groceries he saw that Sherlock was asleep on the sofa with the book on his stomach.

Mycroft appeared to be in the midst of a video call.

“Absolutely non –negotiable.” he was saying, his voice at an even keel making the impact even more chilling. “The agreement was made by the Ambassador on behalf of his country’s government. It is his signature on the dotted line and he needs to find a way to make it happen. Remind him that Papua New Guinea still has cannibals and he may find himself posted there unless the deal goes through in the next four hours. I am running out of patience.”

John just stared at him wondering if was really serious. _Jeez._

He decided to get started with lunch in the kitchen and found the table piled up with food boxes. So he came back with one of them and pointe at it and mimed to Mycroft-- _what is it?_

Mycroft just indicated that he needed to finish the email. A minute later he came to talk to John.

“Sherlock won’t eat from a plate while I am studying.” Mycroft explained with a shrug. “When he was 4 he wanted to eat like I would at school so I asked Anthea to bring these over.”

John was curious to know what it could be and peeked into one box.

_Mashed potatoes, sausages and baked beans. And 6 small bottles of chocolate milk._

_Really?_ He almost laughed out loud. _This was incredible. He was never going to forget this fascinating glimpse into Sherlock’s childhood for as long as he lived._

_._

_._

Finally at 1 pm Mycroft stopped work and gently woke Sherlock up.

“Lockie? Lunch break?”

John saw Sherlock rub his eyes and yawn and hold his arms out.

“Mycie…..bathroom. Pick up.”

He saw Mycroft hesitate for a moment. Sherlock was a grown man now but Mycroft could still not say no to him.

John marvelled at that. He reflected on his relationship with Harry or that of anyone else he knew and their siblings. He had never seen anyone as devoted and as endlessly willing as Mycroft. Given the way they sniped and jousted it was a shock to discover this, though really it should have been obvious to anyone.

It was all in the eyes. Sherlock always accused John of seeing and not observing but John had observed and John had noted. He knew that Mycroft would always be there for Sherlock, no matter the provocation, no matter the price, no matter the difficulty.

He watched now as Mycroft put out his arms and cuddled Sherlock.

“Mycie’s arms are really tired today. Will Lockie help him and walk a bit? It is right here.”

Sherlock nodded. Then he whispered something in his ear as he got up.

Mycroft smiled and gave him his arms. Sherlock gave them one smacky kiss each. “Better now?”

“Completely!” Mycroft said and pretended to flex them. “Come let’s get you sorted so we can have lunch. John will also eat with us.”

“Why?” Sherlock scowled. “Doesn’t he have to go home to his mummy?”

“His mummy is busy Lock, and she has asked me to look after him. Is that ok?”

“No” Sherlock said very loudly. “You are mine and I won’t share.”

“Don’t worry.” John said quickly, smiling. “I am going to give Mrs Hudson company. She is going to make your favourite pudding for you.”

“Pudding!” Sherlock said. “Now!”

Mycroft gave John a mildly exasperated look and John cringed. “Sherlock’s patience even as an adult is hardly better than an average 4 year old ………and now….” Mycroft trailed off as he turned to Sherlock.

In the next minute John understood what made Mycroft such a brilliant negotiator and diplomat.

It was the experience of handling Sherlock his whole life.

“Lockie, you can have the pudding now if you want but John has to go down and help Mrs. Hudson make it and then he will bring it for you. If we wait for him then I can’t have lunch with you because I have to study again in half an hour. So, what do you want to do?”

“Eat with you.” Sherlock said promptly.

“That would make me very happy.” Mycroft said with a warm smile. “I am sooo hungry!”

Sherlock almost skipped to the table and picked up to boxes and came towards Mycroft who was sitting on the sofa.

“Lap?” He asked.

“Sure.” Mycroft settled down comfortably and Sherlock sat on his lap, looking up at his big brother with a joyful smile.

John had never wanted to film anything as much as this series of events unfolding before his eyes.

Sherlock fed Mycroft one bite from his own box and Mycroft fed him one bite from his. That is how they were going to make their way through two boxes.

John left them to their lunch and went down with a huge grin on his face.

.

.

He came back up with Mrs. Hudson an hour later, carrying a large bowl of trifle pudding.

“Hello Sherlock.” She said. “Here is your favourite pudding. Have you been a good boy?”

“Yes Nanny.” He mumbled, with a sidelong glance at Mycroft who smiled in confirmation.

Mrs. Hudson petted him and fussed over him and he let her. Then she asked him “Would you like scones for tea?”

“Yesss!” he said. “With strawberry jam!”

Mycroft sensed an opportunity for a negotiation. “Lockie? Will you go down and play with Mrs. Hudson for a while?”

A pout appeared instantly. “No! I want to stay with you.”

“Sure.” Mycroft said with a smile. “Do you want to discuss the poems now or later? I will plan my homework accordingly.”

“I don’t want to discuss the poems. They are annoying.” Sherlock said, and wandered off to the other side of the room.

Mrs. Hudson and John took that moment to leave, not wanting to intrude in the negotiation. Mrs. Hudson left happily since she had to bake scones. John left reluctantly because he was mesmerized by this entire drama unfolding in front of his very eyes, but he was beginning to feel increasingly like an intruder in his own house.

He sighed. _Maybe he could call Sarah and plan an evening out._

_._

_._

Mycroft sat on the chair quietly, waiting, as old habits surfaced slowly. He knew that Sherlock would orbit around the room and eventually come back to him. He would never venture that far away from his Mycie. He just knew it.

So he waited.

Sherlock stood at the window for a few seconds, walked to the other end of the room, circled around the chairs and sofa and came and flung himself on Mycroft’s back, looping his arms around his neck.

Mycroft smiled and patted Sherlock’s cheek as it rubbed against his own, like a large and feral cat. _He would need to help him shave before the scruff grew longer and started irritating him._

“Did I scare you?!” Sherlock asked gleefully.

“Oh yes.” Mycroft said in mock fear, hand on heart. “I was terrified. Now come and sit here and tell me what you learnt.”

Sherlock laughed and came and sat on the sofa and picked up the book and held it upside down.

“Do you know that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.” He said as he looked at Mycroft. “Will you build me a pleasure dome like Kubla Khan? Will it have lots of cookies? And what does the albatross represent? Why did the sailor kill it?”

Mycroft’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. Sherlock sounded older than 4 now. Was he transitioning through the years every few hours?!

His subconscious had betrayed him in a moment of weakness. Why else would he have given a book of romantic poems to this …child? How was he supposed to explain to Lock that the albatross was meant to be a good omen which the sailor killed out of fear and ignorance? And that he had been forced to wear the dead bird around his neck as a penance for the rest of his life?

How was he supposed to explain to him that the pleasure dome most certainly did not have cookies and was probably a romanticized metaphor for sexual acts? Or that Kubla Khan has been an incomplete poem ever since ST Coleridge was interrupted by someone at his door while he was writing. Coleridge had called his poem ‘a vision in a dream’. ‘A fragment’.

Mycroft always interpreted it as reality came knocking and his dreams were left incomplete.

_What had he been thinking?!!_

As his mind was tearing through all these thoughts in the blink of an eye, Sherlock spoke up.

“I prefer Wordsworth you know.” He quoted. “The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.”

When Mycroft did not respond, Sherlock turned to look at him. “Mycie? Which poem do you like?”

Mycroft spoke as though in a trance. “I have always like the Solitary Reaper.” He quoted:

 “Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

 

Sherlock picked up the poem from there and quoted.

“Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?”

Then he rolled his eyes. “Borrring. Can we play now?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft walks the plank.

Mycroft had been managing the entire conversation fluidly while one part his brain was busy storing these memories in the Mind Palace for a future day.

_When things went wrong again….as the surely would…..he needed to have these to savour and to cherish and revisit._

Sherlock was growing out of the regression, slowly, but possibly surely.

Maybe by the end of the week it would be over….they would be back to sniping and squabbling. The resentment the pushback, the distance.

Mycroft realized that he must have been more affected by the incident than he realized because it was only just occurring to him that m _aybe …..maybe this time around he could prevent it?!_

His heart lurched. _And maybe…this time around he could change it?_

He almost couldn’t breathe as that thought unfurled its wings inside his brain. The sheer vast landscape of possibilities that lay ahead of him was breath-taking. He needed to strategize. He needed to make this better. He suppressed the tiny whisper of hope that started breathing as soon as this thought emerged.

_One step at a time._

.

.

_But…….what if Sherlock realized what he had done and found himself unable to forgive him? What if he pushed him even further away as a punishment or revenge?_

Mycroft was not sure he could survive that kind of rejection. After all, he had survived all these years only because he knew, without a doubt, he knew that at least at that moment in time his Sherlock had loved him.

Loved him back.

His own love for Sherlock had been the one true certainty of his entire life.

Sometimes he believed that he had loved him from before he was born. On certain lonely nights when he was travelling outside London and had had a couple of drinks, some part of his brain could convince him that he had loved him in previous lifetimes and multiple universes….and offered him hope that maybe in some future lifetime they could be together.

_Did he have the strength to survive the shattering of all that if he was given this second chance?_

“Mycie?” Sherlock’s voice broke through his reverie. “Can we play pirates now?? Please?”

.

.

Thus it was that when Greg dropped in later that day he saw Mycroft standing near the window, his hands tied behind his back and Sherlock holding a wooden ruler between his shoulder blades.

“So do you want to give up your ship and join me as a pirate? Or will you walk the plank?” Sherlock was asking him.

“Mycroft Holmes never gives up. I will walk the plank with pride.”

“You are dead now!! Dead!! Dead!! Dead!!” Sherlock said triumphantly, as he stabbed him with gruesome glee.

Mycroft slumped down against the wall as Sherlock jumped on the sofa, brandishing his ‘sword’.

As soon as he saw Greg at the door, he froze and held out his sword.

“Friend or Foe?” He asked.

Greg lifted his hands in the air. “Friend.”

“What are you carrying?”

“Some puzzles.”

The sword was promptly thrown away and Sherlock grabbed the files from him.

“Shall we release your prisoner?” Greg asked casually.

“He is dead.” Sherlock told him seriously. “Will you help me get rid of the body?”

“I can’t Sherlock. You see, I am a policeman. I am going to have to arrest you for killing him.”

Sherlock looked at him and rolled his eyes.

“You are not a very good policeman. You see but you do not observe. He is breathing! He is just pretending!”

“Ah but he is pretending very well isn’t he?” Greg said, rather meaningfully as he went to untie Mycroft, who made a big deal of rubbing his wrists in order to avoid Greg’s brown eyes looking at him.

While Sherlock was busy reading the files, Greg sat on the floor next to Mycroft. He had led many interrogations. Serial killers, plain old vanilla murderers, psychopaths, the works. He could do this.

He leaned against the wall, not making eye contact so as to not spook him.

“Tell me.” Greg said to the Most Dangerous Man in Britain, in his most non-threatening ‘good cop’ voice. “Where does this ship sail to next?”

.

.

Such a long minute passed by that Greg thought the silence would stretch forever. He began to wonder if he had over stepped some line in the sand and that Mycroft would not only never speak to him again but maybe have him sent on deputation to the Mossad.

Greg was mentally preparing for leaving London when Mycroft spoke. In a tone that Greg had never heard before.

There was uncertainty. There was a hint of pain. There was a wave of hope mixed with despair.

“I don’t know at what speed he is growing up. I may need to stay here till he ……grows up.”

Now, Sherlock may call him an idiot but Greg truly is the best of Scotland Yard. He catches on at once.

“And things may turn out better this time.” He said softly.

Mycroft glanced at him quickly and let his guard down for one second. Greg read it all in his expression.

He had always wondered.

He himself had two brothers and he loved them to bits but the kind of interaction he had seen between these two was always very different. Some energy pulse that he could never quite put his finger on. Some undercurrent. A kind of pull and push that was at the same time deeper and higher. More profound and almost tangible.

He could sense that Mycroft desperately needed something to change.

But this was not just a brother’s desire. This was a lover’s longing.

.

.  
Greg almost stopped breathing as he realized what he had just deduced.

“Do you think things can turn out differently this time?” He asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “I can only hope.”

_The universe is rarely so lazy. And how many people genuinely get a second chance?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Sherlock's bed time and John is curious about many many things....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a delay in updating but I had one WIP that just HAD to be finished. Hopefully I can concentrate on this now!! Thank you for your patience and if anyone is still reading do share your thoughts cos comments are a writer's elixir :)
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter !

That night Mycroft patiently fed Sherlock dinner while telling him the ‘exciting story of the Big Bang and how the universe came into being.’

John was listening and after dinner, while Sherlock was changing into pajamas, he asked Mycroft with genuine curiosity.

“Are these the stories you used to tell him? No fairy tales?”

Mycroft looked at him in amusement. “Can you imagine Lock listening to a story that goes ‘Once upon a time in a land far, far away’ without needing specific time and location coordinates? Or being told that Hansel and Gretel left breadcrumbs trail in the forest and not have him snort at the absurdity of that not being eaten up by insects and birds?”

John laughed at that. He could just imagine a tiny Sherlock, curly hair running riot and blue eyes rolling in disdain. “Yeah, he would probably think they were all illogical idiots wouldn’t he?”

Mycroft chuckled. “I did try a couple of times. We started with Snow White but he simply walked off when we reached the mirror, mirror on the wall. _Nonsense_. He had said _. Magic is just technology so advanced we don’t know it yet. But if one did have that, why would one waste time asking this question?! Why would not ask other more useful things? Who is stealing from my treasury? Which tree has the best apples?”_

Both of them were laughing now and shaking their heads. But John had one more niggling doubt.

“Mycroft, if you have been telling him about the universe and the Big Bang, how come he does not know that the Earth goes around the Sun?”

Then John blinked as he literally saw the shutters go up in Mycroft’s eyes.

“He probably deleted it.” he said tersely and got up to check on Sherlock.

John watched him go and wondered.

_Why would Sherlock have done that?_

.

.

“Kiss goodnight?” Sherlock called out from the bedroom.

Mycroft went in and tucked him in. He brushed his wild curls off and kissed him on the forehead and said “Sleep Lockie. You know the brain needs its rest to grow.”

Sherlock nodded vigorously.

“If I sleep at least eight hours every night then my brain will become as big as yours! And so will my Mind Palace! And then you can be inside my Palace all the time because it won’t be too small for you like it is now!”

Sherlock grinned in glee and gave a little cuddle to his pillow.

John was not exactly eaves- dropping but just being very alert and listen-y as he moved around the living room and was almost melting at this charming little dialogue.

Just then he heard Sherlock ask in an almost tearful voice. “Where is Sky? How can I sleep without Sky?!”

He sounded almost frantic. “How will the sun rise without Sky?”

“Shh. Shh Lockie. Relax. Let me look for it.” Mycroft soothed him. “It must be in the other room.”

John quickly busied himself with some newspaper as he heard Mycroft come out. He watched as Mycroft went to the coat hanger near the main door, picked up Sherlock’s coat and found the blue scarf underneath it.

As he walked back in with it, he caught John’s eye. John was absolutely dying of curiosity but he just glanced away quickly and read his newspaper with extra concentration.

He had always wondered why Sherlock, who clearly could afford a large range of expensive shirts always wore only one scarf.

_Was it his comfort object? Had Mycroft given it to him?_

His speculations were disturbed by a faint humming sound coming from the bedroom now. This was too much for him. Even wild horses (and Mycroft’s lethal expressions!) could not have kept him away from creeping to the door and listening in.

Mycroft was singing ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’ to Sherlock. He peeped in through the teeny-tiny crack in the door to see Sherlock cuddled up with the blue scarf with a small happy smile on his face. From what he could see Mycroft was almost radiating heart-eyes as he patted him to sleep.

_Oh for heaven’s sake!!_ He thought to himself. These two loved up crazy men were going to be the death of him. He wondered anew what could have gone wrong and what could make it go right.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could Mycroft dare take that second chance he may have now? Would Sherlock still want him to?

Mycroft lay there next to Sherlock staring at the ceiling and wondering what lay ahead of them. Of course there was a decision matrix and flowcharts and predictions and speculations and deductions to make. His Mind Palace was simply buzzing with possibilities and opportunities and mobilizations and deviations.

If Sherlock had never done what he did……… He dismissed that chain of thought. It is what it is.

If Sherlock had died from the bullet……..no, that pathway made no sense either.

Sherlock had jumped in front of the bullet and had survived. Mycroft was wearing a Kevlar vest but if he hadn’t then Sherlock’s action would surely have saved his life.

Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock, fast asleep with that half smile on his face, clutching the blue scarf. His blue scarf. The one that Sherlock wore every single day since that day.

Which he probably did not remember. And which Mycroft could never forget.

The day that changed the course of their lives forever.

No. Mycroft corrected himself. That day on which he decided to change the course of their lives forever.

For. Ever.

Except that now the Universe seems to have conspired to give him a second chance. Give them a second chance.

_Was he brave enough to take it now? Would Sherlock?_

_Would Sherlock still want this?_

Through his anxious indecision he smiled as he remembered the younger Sherlock and the way he had looked that day. Eager. Hopeful. Excited.

Happy.

He had looked so happy. Ecstatic even.

But happiness is so fleeting and maybe some people are never meant to have it. Sometimes the price of that happiness is too high.

All lives end. All hearts are broken.

Caring is not an advantage, he reminded himself.

It is always a bad idea to revisit decisions. You can never step into the same river twice. The only way to go is forward.

But…a thought whispered again….what if….just this once….maybe…

He felt a tendril of something uncurling inside him. He examined it from all sides and recognized it as hope.

_Did he dare?! Was he worthy?_

It was with these complicated thoughts and memories that Mycroft finally fell into a fitful sleep.

.

.

John was up at the crack of dawn and had showered and made tea. He was rewarded by the sight of Mycroft leaving Sherlock’s bedroom to make his way to the bathroom.

John quickly texted Greg.

{Pub after work tonight?}

.

John had double shift at the clinic that day and Molly had offered to come over in the morning so that Mycroft could get some work done. She got there to find Sherlock sitting on a chair wearing a large towel over himself and his face all lathered up.

Mycroft was standing there with his sleeves rolled up and a razor in his hand.

“Who is she?” Sherlock asked Mycroft in a loud whisper when he saw Molly. “Is she your girlfriend?” He said and giggled.

Both Mycroft and Molly went a faint shade of red.

Molly smiled and said “No I am your girlfriend.”

“Ewww.” Sherlock said. “That’s gross. I am never going to kiss you. Send her away Mycie.”

“Don’t be rude Sherlock.” Mycroft told him calmly. “She is a girl and she is your friend. She is here for a playdate.”

“I got something for you!” Molly said, smiling and holding up a Tupperware box.

“Cookies?” Sherlock asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Something even better.” She said. She opened the box to show him about a dozen toes. Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and looked up at her in awe.

“This is the best playdate ever!!” He said to Mycroft.

Then he looked at Molly and asked, eyes wide open and excited. “Will you bring eyeballs next time?”

“Sure. I can try.” Molly said. “But now you should sit still for your brother.”

Mycroft smiled and held Sherlock’s chin and started shaving his face carefully and thoroughly.

Molly watched for a few seconds and then found herself quite uncomfortable as Sherlock was looking at Mycroft with unfiltered hero worship and adoration and the whole exercise kept getting interrupted by Sherlock dabbing some foam on Mycroft’s nose and cheeks and rubbing his face against his hands.  Mycroft admonished him gently and indulgently and Sherlock giggled.

Molly found herself blushing at the sense of interrupting an extremely intimate moment between these two.

She had always sensed something deeper between these two despite the way they behaved with each other but this……this was something else altogether.

She went to the kitchen and sat there. Never one to waste time, she figured she might as well work on making a new playlist for her daily commute.

Ten minutes later Sherlock came bursting out of the living room in search of her and pulled her by the hand to sit on the floor with him and ‘play’ with him.

Mycroft said a silent _thank you_ to Molly and went to the desk to get his work done.

By lunch time Mycroft had probably saved the country five times, averted two wars and managed to divert funds towards humanitarian relief in three different continents.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was hungry and had sulked a bit that Mycroft wasn’t going to eat with him. But he allowed Molly feed him as he continued with his experiments.

When she was done, she put his lunch box down and said, “I am just going to get some coffee.”

“Black with two sugars.” Sherlock said, automatically, looking down at what he was doing with the ‘experiment.’

Molly’s heart lurched. _Had he started remembering?_

She looked over at Mycroft who was also staring at Sherlock.

Molly wondered _. This was good sign wasn’t it?! Then why did Mycroft look so panic stricken rather than happy?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg helps John make some deductions. Mycroft is trying to solve a very personal case of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for short chapters and all that suspense :P but I am torn between waiting till I write more chapters and then post which may take a while, versus posting chapters/scenes as they get done!

That evening John went to the pub after the clinic work was done, to meet up with Greg. Greg was already there, nursing a drink, with one ready for John.

John slid in next to him and smiled as he raised his glass. “To the Holmes brothers!”

Greg smiled too and raised his glass but there was something in his expression that made John pause.

“You ok mate? Something going on at work?”

“No.” Greg said, frowning. “It’s these two.”

“What is it?” John asked, suddenly remembering that Greg had known these two for many years before he came to Baker Street. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“Maybe…..” Greg said slowly. “I mean you do too but as Sherlock says you really do see but do not observe!”

“Oi! Knock it off!!” John said. “Just when I was getting a break from all this nonsense with Sherlock.”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t know John. Something is brewing with those two and …….it might put me in an awkward position but I have been doing a lot of thinking. Yeah…I will support them.”

John just stared at him quite baffled. “What is brewing?! What will you support?! Oh dear Lord!! Are they planning to kill someone?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Honestly John! Seriously?!! You saw Sherlock sitting on Mycroft’s lap and then Mycroft singing him to sleep and the first thought you have is that they are planning to kill somebody?!!”

“Well then what?!” John exclaimed. Then he snorted. “By the way, do you think Mycroft was the big spoon last night?”

Greg just stared at him. “John.” He spoke very slowly and deliberately. “Please think about what you just said. And then think about what I said.”

Greg waited for a second. He waited for another.

John blinked. His jaw dropped. “No! No Greg. No way!!! Do you …? Is that what…….??? I mean…how can they? But then why do… Oh my god!! Seriously?!! Of all the….” and then he just sat there stunned speechless by his own deductions.

After he had finished his drink and Greg had made him eat something too, he finally took a deep breath and said, “Ok. OK. Alright. I can cope with this…..I think…. But seriously Greg?!!”

Greg shrugged. “It’s always been a bit off between them hasn’t it? Something electric. So much unsaid beneath all that is being said. And I have seen them together during Sherlock’s dark days. There was always something enigmatic, some jagged edges to their relationship. Something that was causing Mycroft a much more raw despair than just the drugs. It was killing Mycroft on the inside. Now that think back to it, if I hadn’t already known that they were brothers, I would have certainly thought they were something else to each other.”

John shook his head thoughtfully. “Wow. Maybe you are right. And now that I see it, difficult as it is to wrap my head around it, I really do hope that they can find what they lost.”

“Yes.” Greg agreed. “I just hope that Sherlock recovers enough to be able to claim it.”

.

.

Back at Baker Street Sherlock had fallen asleep somewhere around tea time and Molly had left soon after, protesting at Mycroft’s gratitude.

“He is my friend Mr. Holmes. I wish I could do more to help.”

“Thank you Dr. Hooper.” Mycroft said in all sincerity and with a hint of a smile. “I may actually take you up on that offer.”

After she left with a blush and nod, Mycroft carried on with his work till Sherlock finally woke up and yawned and stretched himself.

“Hello Lockie.” Mycroft said casually, even as he watched for signs of progression with the recovery. He had noticed the pattern that after every long REM sleep Sherlock seemed to recover more milestones.

“Hmm.” Sherlock grumbled, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Didn’t I have a playdate? Did Victor go home already?”

Then he suddenly looked panic stricken. “Is she there? Did she do anything to Victor?”

“She? Molly went home.” Mycroft replied smoothly. “It was getting late for his supper. Let me get you something to eat too and then we can go out for a walk.”

_8 years old now_ Mycroft thought to himself. _Probably remembering Eurus. Not fully though. Thank heavens. Looks like the memory suppression is filtering out the bad ones. Wonder how long that will last_ ……He could feel the thrum of impatience under his own skin, vibrating deep in his bones.

Half an hour later as they stepped out they attracted many looks and smiles. Two smart and good- looking tall men, not only hand in hand, but also swinging hands as Sherlock walked along swaying and trying to avoid the cracks in the pavement.

“You do know that it’s not real don’t you?” Mycroft asked with a fond smile. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back?”

“Well Mycie, the basic idea was that cracks were not something to trifle with because danger lurks in these empty spaces. Cracks signaled gaps in the boundaries between the earthly realm and the metaphysical realm.” Sherlock responded, while stil holding mycroft’s hand and nimbly jumping over cracks.

Mycroft was thanking his lucky stars that the mention of mother had not generated any curiosity in Sherlock but then he remembered how Sherlock used to barely even acknowledge anyone’s presence in his life besides his big brother. Mycroft felt a wave of hot and cold shivers go through him. They truly had been the centre of each other’s worlds…forever.

“Well, true.” Mycroft conceded. “And then there is nihilism. The belief that nothing in the world has a real existence so we may all in fact be holograms, crack and all.”

“We may all be holorgrams Mycie.” Sherlock said, as he hopped over another crack. “But then consider that hologram ME may want to avoid a hologram CRACK.” And he stuck his tongue out at his big brother. Then he grinned and turned and gave him a bear hug. “Hologram ME thinks you are the BEST hologram big brother in the world.”

Mycroft had to laugh at that, ignoring the people openly staring at them now. He disentangled himself and ruffled Sherlock’s curls. “Come on, Lock, let’s sit here for a while and then get back before it gets too dark.”

They discussed metaphysical and philosophical theories for a while till Sherlock saw someone sit on the bench from across them and started making deductions.

“Premature retirement from the postal services. Recovering alcoholic. Two children. Recently moved here from Asia.” Then he turned to Mycroft and asked. “How did I do?”

“Well done!” Mycroft said. “Although he was probably sacked for his alcoholism and has three children, one of whom is in hospital right now. He did move here from China so that was quite accurate. D.I Lestrade would be rather pleased with you I am sure.”

“Does he catch real criminals?” Sherlock asked, his eye lighting up with excitement. “Does he chase them through the streets? All the murderers and serial killers?”

Mycroft shook his head in mock despair and sighed, flicking away some dust from his sleeve. “Such a morbid fascination with crime Lock. Yes, he does catch criminals and sometimes does chase them through the streets I am sure.”

“I want to do that with him!” Sherlock said, jumping up in his excitement. “I want to go looking for clues. We need to do more deduction exercises Mycie! You have to teach me more pattern recognition work and I need more place for experiments.”

_12 years old now_ Mycroft told himself.

It was unsettling since the progress seemed to be happening in leaps and bounds that he could not predict. And when Mycroft could not accurately predict anything he felt unmoored. Lost.

Scared.

But he was hopeful.

Sherlock had made it past his memory of an 8 year old while remembering Victor but somehow not fully recalling Eurus. He had now reached 12 years of age without any further hitch.

_Was it possible that in his new ‘resurrection’ he was somehow managing to navigate through only positive memories?_

_If that were the case, he would probably be able to do what they had planned to that day and never have to tell him what went wrong and why._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nihilism" comes from the Latin nihil, or nothing, which means not anything, that which does not exist. It appears in the verb "annihilate," meaning to bring to nothing, to destroy completely.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wonders and Mycroft remembers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the crazy delays in updating but...Real Life...Work...more Real Life... sigh...  
> Thank you for still sticking with this story !!! I will finish it soon. Promise !!!

When they got home from their walk Sherlock was still bouncing with energy. Buzzed in fact. So Mycroft asked him to practise the violin. He had been surprised that Sherlock hadn’t mentioned it so far but then the memories had been coming back patchy and in fits and starts. He had often wondered how it was that he remembered the violin and played it so often even though he didn’t remember who had taught him to play.                                                                                                                      

Sherlock scowled but listened to Mycroft. He picked up the violin and tuned it and then played some angry and some silly tunes, as Mycroft rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. 

John wondered for the first time who had taught Sherlock how to play. When Sherlock finally flung the violin aside and went in to shower, John asked Mycroft. “ Who was his teacher?” 

“Someone taught him.” Mycroft said, his eyes suddenly cold and hard. “I suppose you could say he had a teacher.” 

The shuttered look in his eyes that would have deterred a more sensitive person from probing any further. But hey, this was John, so he went right ahead and asked “I don’t envy that teacher. Sherlock must have been a bundle of trouble.” 

In reply Mycroft pointedly looked at his watch and said. “We should get something sorted for dinner don’t you think?”

.

. 

After dinner Sherlock was still charged up and not wanting the day to end. Mycroft tried to get him to calm down by watching some TV but ten minutes into Midsomer Murders he deduced the murderer. Then they tried Doctor Who but he said it was illogical. 

At one point while flipping channels they came across the news and Sherlock stared at the screen and asked Mycroft, utterly confused. “How come the Queen is so old? And what happened to John Major?" 

“Ah Sherlock the world of politics is fickle. Here today gone tomorrow.” Mycroft answered breezily but he shut down the TV quickly, realizing that the more Sherlock saw the more questions he would have. 

“How about I read to you?” He asked, knowing that Sherlock would never say no to that. 

But Sherlock had a gleam in his eye and said “Let’s do something even better!”

.

.

So it was that when John came back from Mrs. Hudson’s where he had gone to give her updates after dinner as she relaxed with her herbal soothers, he found Mycroft wrapped in a dressing gown mincing away as Lady Bracknell, while Sherlock played Ernest and spent most of his ‘stage time’ giggling and rolling on the floor. 

After half an hour of this ruckus Mycroft finally called it to a close. He pulled off the gown telling Sherlock “I have an early start tomorrow Lock. Let’s turn in for the day.” 

Grumbling and reluctantly Sherlock wrapped things up. He gave Mycroft a fierce hug before they left the living room. “You are my best friend.” he said and John saw Mycroft’s expression before he could hide it.

.

.

Later that night as he wondered why Mycroft had been so cagey about the violin lessons and the way Mycroft had looked at Sherlock, he realized that Greg must have been right in his deductions.

After all when one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains however improbable must be the truth!

.

. 

That same night as he lay next to Sherlock, Mycroft ruminated. 

_What makes a person a person?_  

_If one’s memories are replaced or altered or somehow ‘edited’, are you still the same person you were before?_  

How come Sherlock had forgotten events and episodes from his life but remembered Mycroft so clearly even as he was transitioning through it all? The same devotion, the adoration, the possessiveness, the brilliance had all remained. 

_Was that somehow the core of who Sherlock was?_  

_If it was true that beauty is a_ _construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models……….then_ _maybe so was love?_

But then….did incest really ever count as love? When the relationships were so unequal with power and control? Maybe less so in sibling incest than in those across generations but then Freud and Westermarck had radically opposite opinions on it.

Who was to say who was right? 

_Was Sherlock still Sherlock if his memories and beliefs and desires were all different?_  

_Would he become like the Ship of Theseus whose parts were replaced one by one till the ship that returned was made of completely new parts from the one that had left?_

_Would Sherlock with new memories and new choices still be the same Lock he had loved?_

Mycroft turned to his side, restless, unable to fall asleep. Sherlock moved in his sleep to shift closer and threw an arm around his waist to hold him in place. 

Mycroft remembered clear as day that terrible afternoon at Uncle Rudy’s mansion where he and Sherlock had been sent after their own home had been set on fire. By Eurus. Their sister. Who had also managed to kill Sherlock’s friend Victor by accident. 

Mycroft was never sure if she really didn’t understand the consequences of hiding a small boy inside a well filled with water. 

Sherlock had been trembling from shock. That dull afternoon he still had no idea about what had happened to Victor. No one did. But Sherlock knew that Eurus was angry with him for some reason and that had frightened him. Mycroft had been holding him on his lap and soothing him as much as he could when Uncle Rudy turned up there. After they had had tea and some food, he had pulled out a pocket watch on a chain and asked Sherlock to look at it closely. 

Mycroft had no idea at the time what exactly happened but Sherlock seemed to have gone into a trance. Uncle Rudy spoke to Sherlock in a low soothing voice said some things about the two of them being two brothers. Mycroft and Sherlock. They had no sister. They had a dog called Redbeard who was Sherlock’s favourite. They were moving home to be closer to Mycroft’s college in the future and so on.

He wove a new life story for Sherlock in front of Mycroft’s stunned eyes. 

When Sherlock came out of the trance he was smiling and asking Uncle Rudy if he and Mycroft could go play in the tree house. 

Mycroft was still dazed at what had happened but he kept it to himself. At the age of 10 he was already very aware of the secrets and lies and the hidden grey areas of life that many adults seemed to inhabit. As days went by it became apparent that Mummy and Father had no idea what Uncle Rudy had done. That had worried Mycroft and he had itched to ask but he could see that Sherlock was happy, freed of the memories of his cruel sister and the tragedy that had fallen upon them. 

If Sherlock was happy, not much else mattered in Mycroft’s world and so he had let sleeping dragons lie and had almost forgotten about it all until his 16th birthday. 

Sherlock had grown into a brilliant boy, on the cusp of puberty, delicate and beautiful. He and Mycroft were closer than ever. Sherlock adored him. And he adored Sherlock right back. Without Eurus’s dark shadow on him Sherlock was like a ball of energy and rainbows. There were times when the two of them would be in the library or in the garden for hours on end and Mycroft would just forget that anything existed in this universe outside the two of them. _What did they need besides each other?_  

Then on his 16th birthday Uncle Rudy had called him over and told him a secret that threatened to rip him apart. 

Eurus was alive!! She was too young to be in a regular prison and too brilliant and without any moral and ethical boundaries to be allowed to roam free. 

This was the legacy. To be passed on to Mycroft. 

“I don’t trust my brother or your mother to not go soft and try to let her out on a ‘parole’ of some sort. I do trust you though because you have always been the grown up one.” Uncle Rudy had said, as Mycroft stared at him in renewed shock and disbelief. “More than that,” Uncle Rudy continued. “I know you understand how important it is to protect Sherlock from her and that is something you will never take lightly.”

He had handed over his watch and explained to Mycroft how it worked. It had been developed for use during war and for prisoner interrogations. Sometimes it was used for witness protection. 

“Use it with care” he said. “No one knows the long term side effects of editing memories.” 

Mycroft had held it with trembling hands as though it was grenade.  _What was he supposed to do with this?!_  

This powerful thing needed to be on his person the whole time. He could never trust it to fall into the wrong hands. So he kept it locked up in a safe at home and when he finally left home to work in London, he wore his waistcoat and put it in his pocket and never ever let it out of his sight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft remembers and realizes that he is running out of time if he really wants to seize the second chance the universe has offered him.

After a restless night Mycroft woke up at dawn to find himself tangled up in Sherlock. Hands, legs all over him and his head snuggled into his shoulder as they both slept on their side facing each other. 

Sometimes Mycroft wondered how different their lives would have been if the watch had never been invented. Or if it had never been used on Sherlock.

Not once, but twice.

.

.

Mycroft often wondered if the cure had been worse than the disease. But then again, Sherlock had grown up happy and bright and an absolute joy, without the grim shadow hanging over him of Eurus and what she had done to his friend and their home. 

The two of them had grown even closer, brothers in arms, two of us against the world and all that. Like a system with two suns they revolved around each other, the centre of each other’s universe. 

He remembered the night when Sherlock had come to his bedroom on the eve of his departure for college. He had cried and insisted on sleeping with him.

_How could Mycroft say no when his own heart was also breaking at the distance that was going to be put between them the next day?_  

The next morning there was a very tearful parting on all sides and the coming days were witness to a tsunami of letters. Sherlock was only 13 and would write short but painfully heartfelt notes to Mycroft, to be included within the much more detailed and thoughtful letters sent to him by Father. Mummy didn’t have the patience for it and would prefer to make a phone call every two weeks. 

Sherlock’s notes were always intense and started with ‘Mycie, I miss you terribly’ and ended with ‘When will you come back?’ 

Mycroft rubbed circles on Sherlock’s back as he slept on his arm and he remembered that horrible feeling he used to get every time a letter came for him. His homesick and lonely heart would soar and his stomach would swoop low in misery at remembering all over again how far away he was from his beloved brother. Being a genius, he was already ahead of the class but now he worked doubly hard and vowed to finish the three year course in less than two. 

It still meant almost 600 days of separation and he tried really very hard to remember to take it one day at a time. But knowing how difficult the separation was for Sherlock made it even more difficult for him. 

Father sent long comforting letters, sharing some anecdotes, wishing him well, asking about his studies. 

But Mummy always managed to shatter his composure with her brisk snippets of information. 

‘Sherlock sleeps in your room now.’

 ‘I don’t think he has any friends Myke. Tell him to at least try.’ 

‘He can’t mope after you forever.’ 

‘He almost burnt the shed down with some experiment.’ 

‘He plays such tragic music it’s making everyone weep.’

 

Mycroft would be left reeling after these calls, filled with helpless guilt at having left Sherlock alone, and an intense longing to be back home and have Sherlock in his sight, next to him, chattering away. He would be filled with terror that Sherlock was going to harm himself if left unsupervised for his mad experiments. 

College days were not happy ones for Mycroft at all really. He was counting down the days with as much fervour as any prisoner. 

Then finally the semesters were over and Mycroft could go home! He had spent weeks trying to find some gift that Sherlock would love. He found some books and a beautiful blue scarf. 

Sherlock had been using his old light blue scarf which had been the sky for their evening start gazing and astronomy lessons when Sherlock had been very small. It had become a comfort object for the 4 year old Sherlock and it used to give Mycroft a comfortable feeling of possessiveness and happiness to know that. But Sherlock was no longer a little boy and the old pale blue scarf was now ratty and threadbare. Mycroft thought he would give him a more adult-looking royal blue colour scarf of his very own. 

But, all plans to give him the presents and wish Sherlock and spend time with him flew out of the window when he stepped out from the train. 

His two years at college had made it more than clear to him, that taboo or not, legal or not, his sexuality was very much inclined towards his own sex. He had kept himself to himself though since for him any attraction to another person always started at the cerebral and intellectual level and perhaps only then could he consider observing if he found their transport attractive or desirable. In all these days he had not found a single person, students or visitor or faculty who could match him in that and so he had stayed aloof. 

But today, as he stepped out from the train casting his eyes over the crowd he saw him. A magnificent young man, handsome, very intelligent eyes, tousled curly hair, looking slightly shy which was simply adorable. If there was ever a time to believe in love at first sight and throw way his sapio- sexuality, this would be it. 

Even as all these thoughts flashed through his mind, the young man came forward and took one hand out of his pocket and reached out to him. 

‘Mycie?’ 

Mycroft almost fell backwards onto the tracks. 

_Sherlock?!!_

_This gorgeous amazing young man he fell in love with just now was his Sherlock?_

_._

_._

Today as Mycroft looked down at Sherlock, still fast asleep on his arm, his face serene and even more beautiful than when awake, he remembered that night when all the reunion and festivities were done with and Sherlock had come to his bedroom at night. 

“I miss you Mycie. All the time. Why did you leave me? Don’t you love me anymore?” 

“I do Lock. More than anything in the world. I wish I didn’t have to go away. It hurts when you are not with me but it is what it is.” 

“No it doesn’t have to be.” Sherlock said, coming closer, his voice trembling.

“Yes it does Sherlock.” Mycroft told him, his own voice soft with misery. “I have to go to London now, for further studies.’

“Take me with you.”

“I can’t Sherlock. I wish I could. You know that. Soon you will also go to Uni.”

“By then you will have gone somewhere else.” The voice sounded broken now and tears were threatening.

“I am sorry Lockie”, Mycroft said gently, using every ounce of willpower to not give away the sudden intensity and shift in feelings he had experienced. “But that is how life is. Nothing is permanent except change.”

“That is not true!” Sherlock had shouted, springing to his feet and running away, slamming the door as he left. “You and I were supposed to be. Forever.”

Mycroft had watched him go with a heavy heart but had not tried to stop him.

His brother had gone from being gangly to lithe, from beautiful to breath-taking. He wanted to touch him, to hold him, to keep him close. He wanted to ….…to do things he would not even allow himself to accept. He loved him. Of course he did. He always had. So much. He had cherished him and protected him as a child and he had known even then that they were closer than ‘normal’ brothers. Of course they were themselves not exactly ‘normal’ were they?

_But this? This new feeling? This magnetic pull? This attraction? Surely this was not acceptable._

_How was he going to last an entire week here? Maybe he should make some excuses and leave early._

As he sat despairing, holding his head in his hands he heard footsteps near his bedroom and then the door was pushed open.

Sherlock stepped inside again, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, the effect making Mycroft’s very bones melt.

‘I sleep in this bed now,” he said, in the new voice that Mycroft heard for the first time today and it had the effect of making him feel like he was sinking into hot lava.  _That voice!_ That deep powerful and _exquisite_ voice made Mycroft’s brain lose all capacity for reasoning.

‘Sure. Of course.’ he said, getting off the bed, keeping his own voice steady with superhuman effort. ‘I will sleep in your room. It’s ok.’

Sherlock closed the door behind him before Mycroft could come any closer. ‘Your bed is big enough.’

‘Sherlock….no. Please. We are not small children anymore.’

‘I know.’

And before Mycroft could react, Sherlock had moved in and placed a kiss on his lips. Soft and dry, barely a whisper, but definitely a kiss.

“I have missed you Mycie.” he whispered. “So much.” 

Mycroft thought his knees would give way. He took a deep breath and steadied himself and began again. He HAD to be the sensible one. The grown up. The responsible one.

His heart was hammering in his chest.

Sherlock, almost as tall as him now, was holding him in his arms and whispering in his ears.

“Promise me that you are mine Mycie. Promise that you will never ever leave me again.”

Mycroft tried to speak even though his mouth was dry and his head was reeling. “Lockie—you know I have to go to London.”

“I don’t mean physical distance” Sherlock said, pulling back and looking at him. “Promise that you will always be mine. You will never leave me for anyone else.”

“Of course I will be yours.” Mycroft said at once. “I always have been. But….”

“Mine” Sherlock breathed against his cheek. “All mine. You are the one for me Mycie. Kiss me.”

“Sherlock please!” Mycroft said as he tried to push him away, not forcefully but firmly. “Stop! Don’t do something you will regret.”

“You mean like falling in love with you?”

Mycroft stared at him, unable to speak.

Sherlock walked to the window and looked out. “Or do you mean like not wanting to live without you?” He turned around and looked at Mycroft and asked with terrifying casualness. “Didn’t you also study Romeo and Juliet in school? The most famous lovers? Juliet was 13 you know.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed, his blood turning to ice at the thought that Sherlock may even consider harming himself. “Please! Please don’t do anything rash. I am……I am not saying no. I am just saying not now. You are still too young Lockie. Please. You have to wait.” Mycroft pleaded.  

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully and spoke. “You know that mentally I am ….”

“No Sherlock.” Mycroft spoke firmly now, finding his voice and his moral compass. “That is not negotiable. You are 15. That is too young for any kind of valid consent and I would hate myself if ….”

“I am never going to change my mind Mycie and I want this. More than anything else ever. There will never be anyone else.”

“Not for me either Sherlock.” Mycroft said and realized how true that was as soon as the words left his mouth. “But you have to wait!”

“Ok.” Sherlock said scowling. “Fine. I will wait if you want me to. But you have to wait with me.”

“Of course Sherlock. Of course I will wait. Till you are 16.” Mycroft promised.

Sherlock grinned and came closer and took Mycroft’s hand in his own. “Then we will get married!!”

Mycroft took in a sharp breath. “Sherlock. We are already brothers. We are bonded by birth and by blood.”

“Yes, but that is fate. That is chance. This will be a choice. A promise. A vow.” Sherlock said firmly.

And he nearly gave Mycroft a heart attack by kissing him again.

When Mycroft held him off he scowled and asked “What? You said to wait for the commitment not for anything else?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said in a warning tone, terrified that his control was going to slip any second now. “No. Please Sherlock.” Mycroft pleaded. “I am yours. All yours and only yours. But don’t do this. Don’t make me say no to you. You know I can’t. Please don’t ask me things we shouldn’t be doing.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with uncertainty in his eyes. “You do want that too don’t you?”

Mycroft’s brain was still reeling and he blinked. “Sherlock, when you are 16 we will talk about this again. Not because I don’t love you but you are still to grow up, see the world. You may even….” He continued softly. “You may find someone else and I don’t want you to feel tied down and then hate me for it. I will always be there for you. In any way that you want. But we must wait.”

And so with great reluctance Sherlock had agreed to wait.

.

.

As Mycroft watched Sherlock stir to wakefulness today he figured he had only two days left to seize the day, take the second chance the universe had given him. He needed to recalibrate and make sure that their life went down a different path of choices this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sapiosexual: A person who is sexually attracted to intelligence or the human mind before appearance.
> 
> For those of us who remember the pre -digital revolution days, photographs were super rare and the ease of sharing was poor. So it is quite possible that one could go 2 years without seeing what someone else looked like. And I am explaining this in a Holmescest fic because?!!*facepalms* A sure sign of having spent too much time with risks and assumptions and logical flowcharts at work......sigh.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, sorry for the terrible delays in updating!! Can't promise it won't happen again cos life is just like that !  
> Thank you to all who are still reading and blessings will shower upon you if you comment :P

Mycroft had not slept a wink and he lay there with Sherlock tangled up in him, warm and serene and he breathed in that never- forgotten but lost- to- him- for- so- long fragrance of his honeyed skin and the soft, so soft feel of his curls slipping thorough his fingers as he soothed them away from the flushed cheeks.

He really needed to use the bathroom and tried to slip out from under Sherlock’s arm when Sherlock murmured something and woke up. When he realized where he was he gripped his arm tight around Mycroft’s waist.

“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye again? You can’t leave me again!” he said with fierce intensity. “Surely you can do your college studies also at home the way you did for school?”

For a moment there Mycroft felt as though he was in freefall. Sherlock was remembering the night before he left for college that last time. _Which meant he was a mere two years’ worth of memories away from remembering the night he came back._ He needed to act swiftly. Never in his entire life, despite having saved the entire world from the brink of a war to end all wars, on more than one occasion, had he felt the enormity of what depended on him.

His life and Sherlock’s life. Their life together. Their future. Their happiness. Their love.

Everything hung in balance and from now on every move he made would decide whether he ended up with a checkmate or a win or whether all the chess pieces would be flung off the board and scattered at his feet. Forever more. Once again.

“Lockie.” He said soothingly. “I am not leaving you. In fact once you get ready we will both leave and go to my other house. We will go together. I promise you.”

.

.

An hour later John was coming down the stairs when he stopped and listened in to the tail end of an argument.

“You can’t leave me alone. Ever again. ”

“I will not.” Mycroft was assuring him. “But you need to make other friends also Sherlock. It’s a process. You need to get to know other people. Some of them are…..not bad.”

Sherlock snorted. “You can’t even get yourself to say it. Do _you_ have any friends?”

Mycroft hesitated just for a second and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You _do_ have a friend?! Do you? Do you have a relationship with someone other than me?!”

“No of course not Lock.” Mycroft replied at once. “There is no one else who can ever compare. But you are still so young. The world is full of so many choices. Surely you can see the value of mixing around? Finding your way? If you never go down the road less traveled how will you know if you could have found a different destination?”

“That poem has never made sense to me.” Sherlock replied in an icy tone. “It is more about pointless regret than actual logic. These poets like to perpetuate notions that lead to random longings and wistful desires which never lead to anything. No one can ever _possibly_ go down both the road that is safe and known and well- traveled as well as the road less traveled at the same time in the same life. Unless one has a time machine. And sharks and goldfish do not mix. Remember you told me that?”

“Ah well…” Mycroft said with a suppressed smile, remembering this 15 year old Sherlock all too well. Ready to tear into any argument, throw up walls against any suggestion that there may be someone else out there who could be better for him that Mycroft. The Sherlock who defended their not- yet- consummated- or- committed relationship with the ferocity of a shark. “In that case, I welcome you to my shark tank. Shall we?”

.

.

John was still waiting on the top step, absolutely certain that Mycroft knew that he was there but equally certain that he was definitely not welcome into this little ‘domestic’ as Mrs. Hudson would have called it.

He finally came down to see from the window as Sherlock left with his violin case and a bag of hastily packed clothes.

John had the phone in his hand and was dialling Greg even before the sleek black car had pulled away from the kerb. He really needed to know what was going to happen next and he had a sly feeling that Greg knew Anthea a bit better than he let on and may perhaps have more inside information as things developed.

.

.

Before he could get through to Greg, the D.I received another call. Fortunately Gregory was free that day and so he agreed to come and spend time with Sherlock at Mycroft’s residence and bring along some old cold case files.

As they were happily busy solving puzzles and crimes Mycroft was trying to get his work done at triple the usual speed. He was whizzing through emails, reading confidential encrypted files, making and taking phone calls.  He needed to be sure that there would be no diplomatic disaster demanding his time over the next two days at least, as far as he could help it.

He hesitated only for a brief second as he signed off on an order. A.G.R.A. was needed for one last time before they were disbanded. Mycroft needed them to solve this final problem before it destroyed his life yet again.

Few are lucky to get a second chance, but literally no one ever gets a third chance. Mycroft almost felt numb with terror about how much depended on him saying and doing the right things this time around.

The next 48 hours were going to change everything. Once again. Probably forever this time.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movie night and Mycroft is lost in his thoughts

Dinner that night had been a comfortable affair, followed by a movie night.

Sherlock had asked to see ‘An Affair to Remember’ and Mycroft felt he was going to faint. This was the exact same movie Sherlock had asked to see that night. In his slightly clumsy and obviously impatient way of re-opening the conversation about their relationship. Before everything had gone to hell.

Mycroft indulged him this time the same way he had the last. There was one huge difference this time. Whereas the last time his heart had been heavy as lead because he knew what was coming, this time his heart was twisted in an agony of fear and his stomach felt like a forest full of butterflies.

That year he had known for sure what was going to happen but tonight? Tonight Sherlock might open up the gates of Hell or Heaven and there was nothing Mycroft could do to ensure which one it would be.

As he got the movie ready Sherlock was sitting curled up on the sofa, hugging his knees, his eyes never leaving Mycroft as he watched him move around and get the warm throw, place the popcorn within easy reach, get a couple of glasses, something to drink. Mycroft knew that Sherlock was still 16 in his head so only juice for them tonight.

Sherlock smiled at him when he was done with all the preparation and patted the sofa next to him. Mycroft sat there and Sherlock promptly snuggled in till he felt as though they were going to melt into one person. Like two drops of mercury.

Mycroft took a shaky deep breath even as he was storing away all these memories for fear that things were bound to go wrong and when they did at least he would have this.

This warm almost shy smile directed at him. Those long lashes casting shadows on those blushing cheeks. The warm delicate violinist fingers caressing his arm.

Should he really do anything that would either re-write or overlay those memories?!

_What good would it do to either of them??_

If Sherlock somehow remembered what he had done that day and felt angry and betrayed by it and hated him for real this time, Mycroft was not sure he could survive that kind of rejection.

He had survived all these years only because he knew, without a doubt, he knew that at least at that moment in time, on that evening, before that incident, his Sherlock had loved him.

Loved him back.

After all, his own love for Sherlock had been the one true certainty of his entire life. Sometimes he believed that he had loved him from before he was born. On certain lonely nights when he was travelling outside London and had had a couple of drinks, some part of his brain could convince him that he had loved him in previous lifetimes and multiple universes….and offered him hope that maybe in some future lifetime they could be together.

_Did he have the strength to survive the shattering of all that if the memories unlocked or restructured somehow turned all this to ashes?_

Sherlock had loved him. Without a doubt. And fiercely and possessively. In return Mycroft had loved him….no, continued to love him, in a deep and primal way which encompasses all labels while being incapable of being labelled.

He had been the one constant in a life journey that had seen Mycroft leave home, go to college, join the secret service and evolve into a consummate diplomat. He had walked this arduous path alone. Stumbling only when Sherlock seemed determined to kill himself with drugs. He had debated bitterly and long with himself about telling him what had happened and why he was reacting like this and to stop _Please stop this Sherlock_

But he couldn’t do that without taking the risk of reminding him of that evening and he was determined not to. Once in while he would tentatively check if he remembered Redbeard and so far it seemed to have held.

So for all these years he had stood by and watched D.I Lestrade and the cases ease Sherlock’s obvious pain and struggle with himself. And then Dr. Watson had come into his life as his flatmate and the way they had slipped into an easy camaraderie. Mycroft’s heart had been gladdened that Sherlock was not as lonely and alone as he was but he also hated this life where anyone else could be Sherlock’s companion but him.

But now? Could he really expect himself to watch as Sherlock may kick down that house of cards he had built for himself?

The one from his fondest and deepest desires and dreams where they exchanged vows and rings as they had planned and Sherlock would kiss him as though he wanted to consume him. Possess him.

As though he didn’t know that Mycroft was already his.

.

.

As the movie started, Sherlock interlocked their fingers together and gave a sort of satisfied hum and leaned his head in till he was almost resting over Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft was terrified. _How would they see each other in the outside world again and not hold hands? How would he survive, once again, the destruction of his dreams?_

Like a child on a beach filled with jewels he needed to pick and preserve every precious fleeting moment. To savour during the long dark eternity that was sure to follow.  

So with his other hand he tentatively he reached out and ruffled Sherlock’s hair and placed a soft kiss on top of those curls. He was going to be just a tiny bit greedy today. This much he was going to allow himself. Like a man wandering a desert for two decades had glimpsed a mirage and found it to be a real oasis. He wasn’t sure if he would survive drinking it all up. But before it vanished again, he needed to fill himself up with as much as he could.

.

.

He remembered that day all those years ago when he had taken special leave to go home for Sherlock’s 16th birthday.

He had tried hard to prevent himself from actively wondering if Sherlock might have changed his mind by now. Inside his Mind Palace there was a constant buzz of anxiety. Surely Sherlock would have changed his mind?! That is precisely why Mycroft had insisted he wait hadn’t he? So as to be old enough to be sure!

There is no way that Mycroft would initiate any discussion on the matter when he met him today.

_But…what if Sherlock also didn’t say anything?! He had been so sweetly romantic in his letters but what if face to face he regretted his decision? What if seeing him real and in flesh and blood made him realize his terrible and foolish mistake?_

He would live with it. Of course he would. Even if it meant that he would die from the inside. He would always regret not having done more when he could have.

His beautiful radiant angel who wanted to be his and his alone and tie them together for a lifetime. He had refused him. He had done the right thing. Of course he had. He knew he had. _Then why did he feel so sick with nausea at the thought that he was never going to have that again?! Why did some small dark angry corner of his mind wish it had not done the right thing??_

.

.

This time it had been an entire year since they had seen each other. Sherlock was never very good at writing but this entire year Sherlock’s letters had been more frequent that ever before and full of such adoration and yearning that Mycroft had wept every single time he read them.

Today as he sat in the train, he touched the deep blue scarf around his neck and then patted the pocket to check on the watch.

Sherlock had thought it would be amusingly ironic to follow the tradition of something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. So they had agreed on a new blue scarf and the old watch, which was kind of borrowed

Mycroft had had a brief moment of panic at the thought that they might somehow tempt some old Gods and Fate herself by such an irreverent gesture. But then he reminded himself that what they were about to commit was far worse than a silly gesture.

Sherlock had wanted a commitment ceremony.

Just the two of them of course but he wanted a ring and he wanted vows. It had taken a dazed Mycroft many months of trying to dissuade him to realize that in fact Sherlock was worried about Mycroft finding someone better and leaving him.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. _Better than Sherlock?! The brother he loved beyond the confined of a physical heart?! The brother who took up every inch of his Mind Palace the way the Sun takes over the sky? The brother who was woven into his soul in such a way that any separation would tear his very being in half?_

As always he had found it impossible to resist Sherlock and here he was now on a train going home, with something old and something new, something borrowed and something blue.

_Everything I do, I do it for you._ Mycroft thought to himself, smiling a little as home drew closer. Home. Where his heart was.

_They were really going to do this?!_

He had asked Sherlock not to come to the station so that he could avoid a public spectacle because surely they would find it impossible to stay apart after such a long separation. It would also make it easier for him to lick his wounds and stabilize his broken heart in case the sight of him made Sherlock change his mind.

So he was not expecting anyone to pick him up and was utterly astonished to find Uncle Rudy at the station waiting for him.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day that anticipation turned to ashes, one heart was lost and one locked away.

Mycroft had felt numb as he had got into the car with Uncle Rudy who had driven them to a protected location nearby. _Surely this was not good_.

For one crazy moment he really considered throwing himself out of the car and simply running, running straight to Sherlock. But of course that was not a rational or sensible thing to do. So he sat next to him, a heavy silence wrapping them both like a black shroud.

Finally they had moved indoors and in a few short sentences Uncle Rudy had ripped Mycroft’s heart out of its cage, shredded it, and set fire to the remains till only ashes were left scattered.

He explained to Mycroft that Eurus had been allowed some random recorded viewings of her family members as a special concession since she had after all been only a small child when incarcerated and even Rudy was human after all. If he had not had a heart he would not have allowed her to live in the first place. But she was so brilliant that she was useful. For Queen and country. Thus these little ‘treats’.

Of course they had underestimated her despite knowing her prowess and she had seen something no one else had.

So she had told Uncle Rudy last month that she had deduced what Mycroft and Sherlock’s real relationship was like and ‘wouldn’t it be interesting for people to know that she wasn’t the only monster in the Holmes family after all?’

After a hideous pause where Mycroft had been reeling in shock at the implications, Uncle Rudy had spoken, calmly and sternly, although his expression showed the slightest hint of pity for the young man in front of him.

“This has to end now Mycroft. What were you thinking?”

He asked for his watch back and walked out to the car, Mycroft following him blankly and then sitting next to him again in silence all the way home, the only movement being his shallow panicked breathing and the curling of his fingers around the ends of that blue scarf.

A battle was raging inside his mind and his heart.

His parents would be devastated if all this came out. Not only that Eurus, their monster child was alive, but that their other two children were in an incestuous relationship. No. He could not allow that to happen. His parents had done nothing to deserve this.

And his sweet beloved Sherlock. His better half. His heart and soul living in another body. He could never do anything that would damage him. He was only sixteen ! He had his whole life ahead of him. He could do anything, be anything! He was so brilliant. Incandescent and a genius already. The whole world was at his feet.

This way the only person who would be hurt was Mycroft and he didn’t care about that. Somewhere in his heart he knew that he deserved nothing less as a punishment for coveting his own baby brother. For falling in love with his own younger sibling.

_How had he ever dared?!_

How had he dared to imagine this utter foolishness?! That he and Sherlock would do what?! Be ‘married’?! What would that even mean when the world saw them as brothers? How long would they be able to hide? And didn’t Sherlock deserve something better than a lifetime of hiding his significant other? Of living in shadows? He could see the inevitable bitterness, loneliness and misery that would rain down upon them.

No, this was not a punishment. This was a blessing.

Uncle Rudy was in fact saving Sherlock from a fate worse than death.

By the time they reached home Mycroft had seen the error of his ways.

How far had he fallen that his salvation came through the monster in his family?! He needed to remember from now on that alone protected him. Emotions were dangerous. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.

Like an aristocrat to the guillotine he walked to Sherlock and embraced him. That beautiful angel who was glowing with love for him. That creature of joy and purity who was now saved from being tainted by him. He would devote his entire life to looking after him and keeping him safe. Never forgetting how close he had come to destroying him for his own selfish greed.

They had a family dinner where Uncle Rudy regaled them with stories and told them many times how proud he was of Mycroft and all the good things that were being said about his capabilities and how quickly he was going to rise through the ranks. The Holmes family would do what it had done for generations ever since Queen Mary Tudor took the throne. He would serve Queen and country. One of the legion unsung heroes who keep the world safe.

Mummy and Father raised a toast to their older son, almost bursting with joy and pride.

Mycroft bowed to them all and accepted the toast, face flushed as he avoided looking Sherlock in the eye. He could not. He could not look at him and see the love shining forth and then betray him. He could sense Sherlock getting restless as the dinner went on. He could hear the ancient grandfather’s clock in the hallway, ticking louder with every second or so it seemed.

We kill time. We save time. We lose time. We have all the time in the world. But none of us can stop the relentless march of time. None of us can slow it down or freeze it. So Mycroft watched and listened and time passed and the hour of reckoning came closer.

Finally dinner was done and he helped clear the table and then they sat to drink some wine and conversation flowed even more freely. Sherlock sat across from him and he could feel his gaze upon him all the time. Once finally he did look at him and raise his glass, thankful that he was already sitting because the look Sherlock gave him made him feel so weak in the knees he was sure he would have just dropped to the ground.

He sat there silently remembering all those exquisite letters that he had stored away in his Mind Palace.

_“_ _I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice – you. “_

Mycroft can hear those words as though Sherlock were saying them to him here and now. All those love letters. All those words. All that time when he thought that his heart’s desire was within reach when really it had all been a horrible, horrible illusion. The world was a cruel place and he himself was a sinner. He was in a twisted way worse than Cain who had killed his brother and said he was not his brother’s keeper. He had lusted after that which he should have protected and so from hence forth he would indeed be his brother’s keeper.

It was only right that he allowed this to happen tonight. He was not deserving of this love. Sherlock deserved to find someone else who would truly make him happy. Someone to whom he could write all these heart breaking words of love freely and without guilt.

_“I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough. **”**_

Someone with whom he could exchange vows and rings in front of everyone without any shame. Someone he could walk with hand in hand and rest his head on his shoulders while sitting on a garden bench without having to hide.

Someone to whom he could belong completely and in full measure, till death do them part.

Mycroft blinked as he felt Father’s hand on his shoulder.

“Son, go to bed! You have not heard a word we have been saying for the last five minutes!”

“Oh I was hoping that Mycroft would watch a movie with me. I have kept ‘An affair to remember' all ready for us to see!” Sherlock said, trying to sound casual.

“Yes of course, I am sure he would love to! “ Uncle Rudy spoke up, jolly and cheerful. “But first Sherlock, come to the study with me if you will? I have something that may be of interest to you. I understand that you are also quite the genius and I had a puzzle I was hoping you might like to try and solve.”

Mycroft sat in the living room, dead on the inside as Sherlock turned and winked at him and said “See you in five minutes, go wait for me in the movie room!”

Mycroft knew that they would not be seeing the movie that night. Or on any other night.

He watched Sherlock’s retreating back and murmured. “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. “I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice – you." – Rupert Brooke
> 
> 2\. "I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough." – Franz Kafka
> 
> 3\. "Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow." Romeo and Juliet William Shakespeare


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stage has been set. The house lights have been dimmed. The curtain will soon be opened.
> 
> Will we see a tragedy or a romance? ( are they both often the same?!)

Tonight as he watched Sherlock sleep, he murmured softly to himself all those lovely words that Sherlock had written him during that fateful year leading to that tragic denouement. He had never forgotten a single word but till today he had never allowed himself to remember either. Every word had been like a flame to his poor wounded heart but today? Today when a small tendril of hope was making its way from the ice cold depths , he allowed himself to linger over them.

_‘I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, so that you faint and die. When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours, I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them.’_

He knew that this was the night which held in her dark and stormy arms the holy grail of his life. Everything would depend on what Sherlock remembered when he woke up.

Mycroft opened the innermost safe in his cupboard and carefully removed a deep blue scarf. It still looked new although it had spent 14 years in that iron cage, untouched and unseen. Today it would be spread out on the bedside table in all its loved glory. Then he also removed the second gold band that matched the one he had taken to wearing all those years ago. He had vowed that he could make the commitment even if had now fallen to him to do it alone. He had taken the ring from the pair he had got made and put it on his right hand and kept the other one safe in the cupboard. Alone and cold but safe. Tonight he placed that also on the bedside table.

The last thing he placed there was the object that filled him with loathing and fury and hope all at once and that was the watch.

Eventually Uncle Rudy had returned it to him when he was convinced that the memory morph had ‘taken’ and then some years later had even explained the intricate workings of it when he knew his own time was up. Mycroft had thus inherited the dubious collection of Eurus and the watch and a few other equally shadowy and mysterious enterprises that Uncle Rudy had managed.

Mycroft being a genius had figured out ways to even improve the watch but he had never tampered with it. He was sorely tempted to do that and then use it on certain opponents on more than one occasion but like a talisman he held on to it because who knew? Someday…somehow…he may need it to be exactly the way it was so that he could reverse what had happened.

Sherlock had not only forgotten that he was in love with Mycroft but in fact he resented him now. Found him annoying. Wanted him to stay away.

So Mycroft had stayed away as much as he could and built a dam over the raging sea of his emotions.

When Sherlock fell out of love, Mycroft felt like one of those mountain climbers tied by a safety rope. They had been tied to each other so intricately that Mycroft had felt himself plummet with Sherlock, right into shocked oblivion; his vision and thoughts blurred by the avalanche of anger, sorrow, grief, guilt……… and most of all , tormented by the things unsaid that now whispered into his brain every night. Burrowed little tunnels into the amygdala and fed themselves on morsels of regret.

Vicious tragic little whispers. Big little secrets.

_He will never know…….now he will never know……_

And so he lived his life, with an aching void inside of him, being circled by the debris of his broken heart, swamped by the bitter taste of guilt and regret that no amount of smoking or cups of tea could drown. His dreams were a tangled web of honey silk lips and eyes like a trapped galaxy, ink and letters, the strains of a violin……and a long blue scarf, all slowly tumbling down the rabbit hole…….latitude…..and ……..longitude………..falling further and further down…….but there was no place for a landing.

His compass had been re-set and all arrows now pointed to that moment in time when the world as he knew it had come to an end.

So he existed and worked and behaved like an Ice Man with no hint of the screaming agony the held inside his heart. He had spent the first few weeks in the exquisite torture of trying to see what he could have done differently. He dissected all the layers and interlocking details of their lives in the slowest possible post-mortem.

Cut open the chest slowly. Easy does it.

Remove the heart. Careful with the broken fragments. Gently weigh it. Heavy isn’t it?

Slice open the lungs that forgot to breathe sometimes.

Dissect the brains and scoop out the memories. Examine them under a microscope. Twist them around to make sure you see all the sides.

Then stitch it all back again.

Keep it clean and presentable for the public viewing.

.

.

_But he will never ever know……..he will never ever know……._

_How can I ever tell him? How will he ever remember again?_

_He can never be allowed to remember again._

It had become like a forgotten refrain when suddenly this accident and the memory regression had opened wide the doors of an impossible hope. And now, tonight? He would sleep next to Sherlock the way they had been sleeping for the last week and when he woke up, he would know if he had crossed the river Styx into his own private Hell or he would find himself in their own Garden of Eden.

He was not sure if he deserved it. He was the one who had led the four horsemen of the apocalypse into the Garden in the first place.

The first horseman rides a white horse, and Mycroft knew that it was his devotion to Sherlock. It was as high as worship and as pure an adoration as that of a devotee to their god. He had been conquered. Vanquished by that all- consuming love. 14 years apart and he still felt it. As sharp as a blade and fresh as dew and as divine as a blessing.

The second horseman rides a red horse and symbolizes war and bloodshed. That had been the brutal amputation of the ties that he had been forced into. With Uncle Rudy at the helm of that army and the enemy too close, Mycroft felt that he had been forced into that chess move where he had been forced to give up his Queen in order to checkmate the dark side. What a price to pay!

Then had come the third horsemen riding a black horse and symbolizing famine. The utter barren and desolate landscape that had become his life. Watching Sherlock from far away, the way a small insignificant lonely miserable human being might gaze upon a distant comet and have the futile hope to get some warmth from it as it blazed across the sky. Untouchable.Unaware even of the existence of this sad human and the yearning that filled its sad heart.

Now? Now the fourth horseman was waiting and watching. Ready to ride in on the pale horse of death. The final nail in the coffin of his relationship with Sherlock.

After all, he knew logically that there were only a few ways this could unfold.

Sherlock would not remember any of those feelings and they would simply be brothers who liked each other, as regular brothers often do.

Or Sherlock would remember the love or fall in love again.

Or he would remember the love but be horrified and disgusted and reject him.

Or he would remember the love and later also remember what was done and then reject him.

Or he would ask him what happened because at the pace he was remembering, it was obvious that if not tomorrow then someday soon he would be back to where he left off on that fateful day. Then there would be questions. Mycroft would have answers. Those would have consequences.

Like the ship of Theseus, Mycroft wondered how much of Sherlock would eventually come back fully, given that new memories had been inadvertently created within the halls of the Mind Palace within the rooms designated for the ages four, five, ten , fifteen and now sixteen.

_How would these all match up later?_

_Would the pieces be  horribly painful shards or a kaleidoscope?!_

.

.

Time is the longest distance between two places, he thought to himself as he lay his weary head on the pillow.

Tomorrow.

He was not sure if he wished it would never come or would come in a blink.

He closed his eyes and waited.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, so that you faint and die. When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours, I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them.’  
> Gustave Flaubert to Louise Colet
> 
> Time is the longest distance between two places. Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie


End file.
